The Elimination Game
by Aroara
Summary: Its been 4 month's since Moriarty's message appeared on every screen in the country, since then its been quite,too quite. Crime is at an all time low, the calm before a storm? When information does finally arrive,it's comes from someone unexpected. Someone whose worked with Moriarty before,someone Moriarty will stop at nothing to kill. So what if Moriarty...had a sister?


**This is set 4 months after what happened to Magnussen**

John climbed the few stones steps leading up to his light blue front door. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and a light breeze blew across his face.

But Sherlock's voice stopped him cold. "Wait".

It was the voice he had only ever heard when waking into a trap; on one occasion, when he'd almost fallen into a pit of spikes when they'd investigated a murderous circus. A voice that warned him one step further and he would be in danger. But Mary and Amelia, his wife and child were in there; what did the detective expect him to do?

"What?"

"Your door" Sherlock's voice was tense; he was as protective over Amelia as John was "it's been forced open."

His teeth clenched and John's blood turned cold. He quickly reached into his jacket and pulled out a fully loaded gun, he'd kept it close ever since _his_ message.

John began to take a step forward but Sherlock stopped him.

"Let me go first" he said, not asking.

The smaller man nodded, moving back to let him through. Sherlock nudged open the door, stepping quietly inside, John quickly following. Both of them easily avoiding the floorboards that squeaked, the army doctor from countless failed attempts to creep down the hallway without waking the baby, and Sherlock well…

Out of the corner of his eye, he recognised the countless baby photos that now covered his walls. Each depicted Amelia gazing adoringly up at him or Mary, with her big blue eyes, or simply playing with her toys.

"Stop" Sherlock hissed.

"What-"

"Listen."

"I don't-"

"Pmph" a muffled voice, too low to be Mary's came from the end of his hallway. John's thoughts immediately jumped to his elderly neighbour who always leant a hand if they'd run out of milk, or he or Mary was sick.

Had he tried to help?

Had he gotten hurt?

Both of them moved quickly forward, rounding the corner at the end of his hall, to be faced with something that had definitely ruined John's walls.

A thick set, burly man, dressed in ordinary clothes but with a balaclava on, was stuck to his wall. Daylight robbery was never the smartest move, but he didn't know what to think of this guy looking at him now.

His crowbar lay resting against the Watson's umbrella rack, (which was almost exclusively used by Mycroft), duct tape covering his mouth, a frying pan was lying on the floor in front of him, and four knives were speared through his clothes, leaving him dangling a few inches above the ground.

John automatically looked at Sherlock for an explanation, wondering if he should be worried. It seemed he didn't as I watched the tension drain from Sherlock's body, as he began to curiously examine everything.

"Your wife banged him on the head with the frying pan after he was on the wall" Sherlock remarked.

They had seen odder things but this was his house! John mentally groaned, what had happened to him? I use to live with Sherlock Holmes! The man who used a pig's bladder exploding as an alarm clock.

"Expert marksmanship" Sherlock continued, miming throwing a knife at the man who stared at them wilding, trying to break free, "Had to make contact at just the right angle to still be holding him up".

As he finished, John heard the sound of Mary's voice from the kitchen.

"Come on" he told Sherlock, picking up the frying pan as he went.

The would-be thief writhed as they passed and John sighed to himself. It wouldn't do for him to get away. He lifted the frying pan and brought it down hard, before continuing on.

The Watson's kitchen was a small room, painted an offish white, with a large table pushed near the left wall, and a few wooden chairs scattered around it.

It was the black gun on the table that drew his attention first though. John uneasily recognized it as Mary's, and then, of course, his eyes went to the women herself and the baby in her arms.

When they caught sight of him, Mary smiled and the baby waved her arms joyfully as well. But before he could move towards them, Sherlock spoke:

"Hello there" he said in that unreadable voice John had learned to be wary of.

Getting distracted was an easy mistake, but he really should have noticed the whole other person in the room. She sat opposite from Mary at the table, sipping her tea and watching them. Actually she was watching him. This should have been John's first clue that she was dangerous.

If both Sherlock and he stood in a room with a bunch of people who didn't know who they were, they'd look at Sherlock; naturally they'd look at him. A tall pale figure, in a long dark coat, with piercing eyes, which picked you apart the longer he stared at you, his features dragged your eyes towards him, forcing you to look at him, even if only for a moment.

But her eyes, green-grey in colour, didn't even flicker towards him. Even when he spoke she still stared at John in a Familiar, unnerving, blink less way.

Seeming to come back to herself, she finally turned away from him.

"Oh hello, Sherlock Holmes I presume."

"Yes the ring gave it away" the man himself replied, not seeming to expect anyone else to understand.

She nodded in return, "Also his eyes."

"I see" Sherlock stopped and I watched his own eyes move over her. Observing. Deducing.

In return she placed her hands on the table, splaying her fingers.

John attempted to examine her himself, apart from her eyes; she was pale with a few freckles. She had a small callus on her right index finger and her hair was dyed a multi-coloured range from blonde and brown to red and black.

"You've got good aim" the consulting detective said at last.

"I practice" she replied.

"You were very helpful with that man" Mary put in.

The woman smiled, "Oh, I'm sure you could have handle it, but you'll need a new pan."

"So Miss…"

"Sparrow. Eliza Sparrow" she answered to Sherlock

"Not your _real_ name" he replied curtly, eyes narrowing as he put his hands behind his back.

Something flashed across Eliza's face, something dark.

"Hardly, too dangerous for that sort of thing" her voice was cool.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock said abruptly, suddenly looking bored.

"Good, small talk _is_ rather tiresome. I'm here because I have information about Moriarty."

"Finally, I was getting irritated with waiting."

 _Only you_ John thought, though he'd felt this same, if a little less extremely.

"So you work with him" John concluded aloud edging closer to Mary.

She turned that unnerving gaze back to him; Sherlock watching silently, but he could hear him tapping out a rhythm with his fingers.

Eliza tilted her head, "I _did._ "

"Did?" Sherlock questioned.

"We had a disagreement over my accommodations" she said leaning back in her chair, "and then he tried to have me eliminated. Very rude, I think he really could have been more of a gentleman and just asked me to stay out of his way, but _no_! He had to get all dramatic with snipers and the fire, and the…" she trailed off and bit her lip, "bloodhounds; now _that_ was a little personal."

"How can we trust you?" John asked unfazed by what were _hopefully,_ though doubtfully dramatics, "how do we know you're not still working for him, because it doesn't seem very likely that one would stop after they've started" John rolled his shoulders as he finished, turning his expression into the one that had scared so many young soldiers

Eliza straightened up in her chair and opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock interrupted:

"Quite simply because we'd still know what Moriarty would want us to know and how he planned to mislead us. And if the information proved reliable we'd have what we need, useful either way."

The woman nodded, "Exactly."

John frowned, trying to get his head around it, "So-"

"Oh look at the time; well I must be off" Eliza interrupted hurriedly, jumping to her feet.

"Pleasure meeting you, John, Mary" she looked down at the baby, "baby."

"Amelia" Mary corrected.

She turned to look at Sherlock, "Mr Holmes" she added after a short pause.

John stared after her, listening to the crunching noise as she worked her knifes free, and then another bang and a groan from the man, just before he heard his front door slam shut.

"What about the information?" he asked no one in particular.

"I'm sure we'll meet again." Sherlock replied with an odd look on his face.

"So did you…" John felt weirdly awkward as he trailed off, unsure; the way Sherlock was staring at the hallway Eliza had just vacated unnerved even him.

"Yes, yes" Sherlock cleared his throat, "She's right handed, seems to be a master of knife throwing, but also has _hobbies_ in art and gardening. From the colour of the soil in her fingernails she doesn't own a garden. She hasn't been in London long and believes she's being followed; a correct assumption if there was one. From the rumpled look of her clothes she was watching the house for us for some time, but then chose to intervene sooner at the sight of the break in. This is, of course, the reason for her abrupt departure as she appears to only allow herself to stay in one place for a period of forty five minutes, which I observed from her watch. Yes John I believe her to be trustworthy as long as it suits her purposes. Why you may ask, because Moriarty imprisoned her, tried and is most likely still trying to kill her, although it appears not very hard. And who wants to help a person who's trying to kill them?"

His words were quick and precise, and for someone hearing them for the first time might have been hard to keep up with, but John had experience.

"But?" he asked, sensing a 'but'.

Sherlock scowled at him, not liking the fact he'd been interrupted.

"She appears to be quite capable of faking information. The spots of paint on her hand could have been added. She could have scrunched up her clothes, sent the man in and then followed. There are variables to consider, information to gather."

John nodded in agreement.

"Call Lestrade" he continued "you'll want someone to deal with that man" tugging at his scarf, Sherlock turned and walked towards the door.

"Attempted burglary isn't Grey's division" he called after him.

"Who cares about Grey, we need Graham" Sherlock replied opening his front door.

"His names Grey!" John yelled after him but the door had already slammed closed.


End file.
